At the Starting Line
by okumori
Summary: Of dueling, the things that are lost, and the things that can be found. Five stories in a thousand words.


A response to my art group's challenge of writing five complete stories in 1,000 words.

I. Kaiba

It wasn't the dragons that made him terrifying. Three Blue-Eyes were certainly a force to be reckoned with, but as Mutou Yuugi had proven, they were by no means a death sentence. But when faced with their surge of power, opponents crumbled—sweating, cursing, despaired and deflated. They cowered in fear as he drew card after card—would the next signal their last? And he, calm and collected, excessively so: deep eyes an inferno of victory, indifferently appraising their prey like meager scraps presented to a rare creature. Pride and confidence personified. It was this—this human transcendent, whose aura froze the air around him, brute force crackling like a lightning storm—that made others cower in his presence. Impenetrable, inhuman, superior. But to those who knew him, the dragons were security, their master someone they'd follow to the depths of hell, if only to catch him at the last second.

II. Jounouchi

It was never about luck. If it had been, Jounouchi supposed the joke was on him—he couldn't quite call his childhood and being born into a dysfunctional family the luck of the draw.

Perhaps that was why he was attracted to those kinds of cards. Jounouchi had often gambled with his life (the only chip he owned worth much of a damn) before, especially during his gangbanging days, so why not in the arena, too? Every duel was a chance to turn his luck around, to become the winner he didn't quite believe himself to be.

No, it wasn't a matter of luck. It was taking everything—the lessons learned from the bad and the skills he honed from the good—and applying it in battle with his finely-tuned survival instinct.

It was reining in his nervous energy to hyperfocus, memorizing the battlefield as it evolved, identifying all exits, and taking advantage of the natural landscape. It was about lulling his opponents into a false sense of security and then pulling the rug out from under them. They'd never see it coming, and they'd never forget it after.

Luck wasn't a part of it, but Jounouchi wouldn't turn her away if she showed up, and he certainly wasn't above using her cover to his advantage.

III. Yuugi

Sometimes Yuugi doubted himself. He knew he had a natural talent at games—he was raised in a game shop, after all, and he had solved the Puzzle even his grandfather, a master gamer in his time, hadn't been able to. He memorized rules easily and adapted to the flow of gameplay as though it was his very reason for existing.

But everything changed when he met Him. He was the Game King, while Yuugi remained a phantom in His shadow. But He insisted that the two were partners, hadn't He? And while Yuugi desperately wanted to believe they were on equal footing, part of him couldn't shake the feeling the He was just humoring him.

So when He left, Yuugi didn't know what to feel. His closest friend—could he really call Him that?—was gone, and so was the confidence as well as the source of his questioning. But the doubt didn't dissipate, not even with His parting words and the knowledge that He would never walk amongst the living ever again.

It made his heart ache more than he cared to admit. It left him feeling hollowed out, like a diseased tree left to rot until its core was beyond saving. But even hollow, he'd ascend the arena steps and take his place in front of the crowds, filling the empty spaces with the adrenaline rush that came with the roaring cheers and creeping stage fright. It made Yuugi feel present and slightly more like himself—the person he remembered himself to be before Him: comfortable in his element. He'd probably never feel whole again—He'd taken too much as fare for the afterlife, their identities left to bleed together like colors on a wet canvas—but he found he didn't much mind. It was a tiny penance for a sin he knew he didn't commit but couldn't keep himself from feeling culpable.

IV. Mai

Part of the thrill was knowing it could all easily fall apart, that everything hinged around one card.

V. Ryou

It was easy to feel guilty. He'd been the carrier, patient number zero, so to say, of the whole ordeal. While Yuugi's solving of the Puzzle may have been the catalyst to their ancient adventure, the Spirit of the Ring had been the architect, pushing them ever so slowly back to the desert where he'd laid his last footprints.

It was unsettling. The Spirit had not been kind, taking up residence in Ryou's body like a drifting squatter, waiting to become a permanent addition once the owner finally relinquished possession. And although the Ring was now gone, lost to the vacuum of time and billions of grains of sand, Ryou sometimes still felt its presence around his neck, the weight pressing familiarly against his chest.

It was like a noose. And although Ryou no longer suffered any danger of the gallows, he never could quite shake the feeling of death looming at his heels. Sinking into the shadows no longer felt welcoming, and although he still felt an affinity for his occult-based proclivities, Ryou often felt his desire lacking.

It was upsetting. Ryou took few pleasures in life, and now even his hobbies had been tainted. When painting his tabletop figures, he'd idly wonder if one of them would become his coffin. If tossing a pair of nine-sided die would divine how many days he had left to live. In his dreams, the Spirit beckoned, his cruel laughter spinning threads that bound his body, playing him like a puppet.

It was never-ending. And so when Yuugi one day pressed his hand against Ryou's and squeezed, the same dark circles forming bruises underneath his eyes—although for different reasons—Ryou felt his emotions bubble up and overflow, and there was nothing he could do but cry.


End file.
